I Keep This Moment By and By
by lizook
Summary: Which means he can't blame traffic for the fact that he's late.


**Spoilers/Timeline**: General series/Set in the future

**A/N**: Blame the weather in this piece on the fact that I'm probably going to see a ton of rain over the next few days.

**Disclaimer**: Suits doesn't belong to me; Title taken from Sarah McLaclan's _Wintersong._

* * *

Quickly he closes the car door, waves Ray off as he pulls his coat tighter.

It's the second day he annually takes off. The first, of course, is the anniversary of his dad's...

And then there's this...

So much lighter. Warmer.

Unfortunately, there are years when this doesn't even happen. Not in mild winters or when a total of five flakes fall so that it's not enough to make it worth it.

Who would guess that the first snow of the year would turn into a holiday for him—no, them?

Somehow, somewhere along the way, it has though.

Has become one of their many things.

(And really, there are too many little understandings, ways they've worked into each other's lives, to quantify just what that means...

Though he has his suspicions...)

The flakes are still falling, a light wind pushing at his back as he turns the corner to her block. Even if it wasn't an ungodly hour on a Saturday morning, the few inches already covering the ground are enough to discourage most city travelers until the storm dies down.

Which means he can't blame traffic for the fact that he's late.

Knows she'd see right through it anyway.

If only he hadn't spilled espress—

He stops, buries his hands deep in his pockets as his gaze falls on her. She's already pissed, brow furrowed, eyes closed against a sudden gust of air, and he takes the opportunity to watch her without her knowing it.

Though by the way her head tips back, her right foot crossing in front of her left, he's certain she _does _know.

Still, there's something that tells him not to rush, to take the day as it comes.

The snow swirls around her, settles in the vibrant warmth of hair, lands in the knot of her scarf. Part of him wants to shake it all away, the other half...

He takes a deep breath, tries to push the thought away, but suddenly all he can see is his mouth pressed to the hollow of her throat, lips kissing flake after flake from her cheek and nose and—

Her lips press together, shoulders lift, and he realizes she's truly irritated. Closing the distance between them, he waves in greeting, any thought of an explanation dying as she arches an eyebrow and pushes off her building.

"Planning on wasting my time even when we're not working?" Her smile undercuts her tone and he exhales, grins back, mirroring her posture. "I was starting to think it'd be Opening Day before you showed up."

"And miss your annual Springsteen duet with Rachel on New Year's Eve? I don't think so."

"That happened once." Her smile widens even as she rolls her eyes.

"Twice, and I fully plan on making sure it happens again this year."

"Plotting an entire month in advance?"

"Being the best closer in the whole damn city doesn't happen without a little forethought."

"And a badass secretary."

"Well..." He leans further into her space, heat flaring across his neck as his hand brushes against hers. "Yes, that too."

There's been a strange tension—not their usual 'one day these fucking boundaries aren't going to even matter' tension—since she left and came back, but she laughs, her eyes softening for just a moment and it all rushes away. Coils and dissipates as she steps forward, passing him his cup of hot chocolate.

"Did you bring the camera?"

"Obviously." He pats his coat pocket, lifts the cup to his mouth.

"The stapler?"

He doesn't even bother answering that, just grips the cup a little tighter as the warm cocoa and brandy mix together and he swallows. "So what blight on the skyline are we visiting this year?"

She stops mid-sip, her free hand now adjusting her scarf as she starts to walk. Her eyes narrow in concentration and it's all he can do to stop from laughing because he's certain, would bet both their salaries on it, that she investigates and adds new buildings each October just to be prepared.

(It's one of the few rules: no repeating ugly buildings.

Though honestly, New York isn't going to run out anytime soon.)

"The Whitney Museum of American Art is this year's winner."

"Sounds promising." He starts following her, trusting that she knows the best route from her place.

"It's from the sixties so..." She shrugs, mouth turning up as he falls into step next to her.

"It's practically an antique."

"Clearly."

Laughing, he gives in for once, brushing his lips over her temple as her hand slides under his coat and presses to his hip. They walk in comfortable silence for awhile, the normal rush of the city muffled by the falling snow, her body curled into his.

"Maybe we can check out Artschwager's exhibition afterwards; the pieces online look crazy."

"Perfect." He whispers it, grinning at the lightness of her step, her breath warm on his throat, and the cascade of white all around.


End file.
